


Caged Birds Still Sing

by FeuillesMortes



Category: 15th Century CE RPF, The Hollow Crown RPF
Genre: Class Differences, F/M, Forbidden Love, Mutual Pining, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:00:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27038347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeuillesMortes/pseuds/FeuillesMortes
Summary: Catherine de Valois, dowager queen of England, is at a decisive moment of her life. Out of all the things she had expected, she did not think change would come in the shape of a man.
Relationships: Catherine de Valois Queen of England/Owain ap Maredudd ap Tewdwr | Owen Tudor
Comments: 6
Kudos: 21





	Caged Birds Still Sing

**Author's Note:**

> A birthday gift for @beardofkamenev 🌹

WINDSOR CASTLE

Summer 1429

There was one thing, in particular, that Catherine missed the most about her life at Poissy: its smooth, pristine, marble-white silence. She had known many types of silences since the days she would follow Marie around like a string attached to its wandering kite, shadowing her older sister’s every step as Marie underwent her duties as a novice at le Prieuré Saint-Louis near Paris. There had been the long dark silences of winter in a foreign land, numb hours spent before the fire, the logs cracking and splintering as the flames licked and grew. There had been the tight silence preceding her labour, fraught anticipation interposed with the moans she could only let out through gritted teeth. There had been the silence at sea, every passenger turning their thoughts to Christ their Saviour, all much too busy with prayers to talk, ever dreading: _This time la Manche will be my burial ground._ There had been the silences of a sober husband lost in his thick clouds of thoughts, an economy of words in times of warfare and lean spending.

None of those silences compared to Poissy’s. Sighing, Catherine shifted atop the oak chair they had brought from the palace for her leisure in the garden, turned one of the pages of her book with a dispassionate flick of her finger. For all she might miss it, the silence at Poissy had never been absolute. Every hour the sisters would sing the offices at church, and though, unlike Marie, Catherine had not been obliged to attend every office, she would sit very still and listen to the distant voices coming from the choir: rising, reverberating, floating across the whole convent in their way up to the vault of the sky. _Marie, Marie!_ She would cry out, holding onto her sister’s hand tight before she made her way to the choir stalls. Even at the refectory there had been merry whispering instead of doom-impending faces: one of the sisters would read from the psalms while Catherine, Marie and the other Marie — la poétesse’s daughter — would exchange confidences and secret smiles.

It had been a long time since Catherine had left the monastery consecrated to her ancestor Saint Louis, and the days she would spend looking at Roi Philippe le Bel’s effigy, supine atop his marble bed, heart hidden inside his tomb, had begun to discolour and crack like the silver leaf illuminations in the book of hours she held between her hands. Despite her departure, her sister had stayed at Poissy along with all the memories of that brief happy period of her childhood. In time, Catherine was certain Marie would become Mère Prieuse, _une très sage et vertueuse religieuse_. To receive her sister’s letter retelling how the English troops had attacked Poissy and forced the nuns to flee and shelter in Paris, how the troops had pillaged its countryside and plunged it into famine, had been a heavy blow to the heart. She, woman without a country, queen that never was, stuffed doll pulled into two different directions. Papa, Maman, her husband, now all of them belonged to a foreign distant land called the past. All that had been left to Catherine was her dear boy, Henry, her petit Roi d’Angleterre. _And of France_ , she added, though her brother was of a rather different mind about the issue.

As there came an uncommonly warm gust of wind, Catherine tried to concentrate on one of the offices of the Virgin, the miniature of the mother of Christ laid before her eyes as an invitation to retrospection. The day was too hot, late summer in full bloom: buzzing wasps came and went past her ears, circling around the cones of golden hair gathered inside her hairnet set with beads. Pearls, brooches, black satin lining, the padded roll sitting on the crown of her head — such common adornments, yet all of them seemed to add to the day’s oppressive haze. By her side, she could see Eleanor Beauchamp, Lady Roos, flushed and sweating, fanning herself with her book. Poor Lady Eleanor! Just back from the birth of her third child and her husband and father still at war in France, a situation Catherine knew all too well. That seemed to be the plight of every married woman those days, be her French, English or Flemish: waiting, praying, worrying. 

In the spur of a moment, Catherine wondered what her life would have been like had she and Marie switched places. She shivered. _Sheltering, hiding from the English and the Flemish._ No, it was useless to think of the page unturned, the road not taken. For, if Catherine thought about it for too long, hers was not much different than a religious secluded life: she could not ever be a wife again (or at least not for a long time), not since her son’s council had frightened any prospective husband with the threat of destitution. Yet Catherine could not make motherhood the cornerstone of her life either: her son was a king, not some common child that could wail and hide behind his mother’s skirts. Since his earliest days, the throne had been his cradle, the sceptre his rattle toy.

Perhaps Catherine should resign herself to a life fully dedicated to Christ. Yes, perhaps the day Catherine would step inside a convent again was not so distant in the future. She was struck by the sheer strength of that realisation, that sudden flash: she would like to live among the nuns again, she would like to — _a new set of steps resounded near the trellis, they made her raise her head and look up from her page_ — she would like… to… _Perhaps_ she would, she decided with a breath caught in her throat, but _not that day_. Exchanging a few words with the guard overlooking her reading, Owen Meredith, her servant, stood next to the south entrance to the garden, his hose the colour of fresh leaves and a white, dancing smile that reached nearly to the rim of his face.

It was not a proper walled garden — Windsor had always been more dedicated to hardy knights and brothers-at-arms than to dainty amorous ladies — but the rose trellises stood for the same purpose. Catherine had taken to read outside ever since that dry spell had hit the castle: she and Lady Roos would seat among plums and nectarines that had been squashed onto the ground, thirsty for the nourishment of a single drop of water. A squire standing guard over their reading had been another common element of her outings but presently, Catherine watched as that guard handed over his post to Sir Owen with a mutual pat on the shoulder and enough willingness to fill a moat with. All of her servants liked Sir Owen, she had noticed, men and women alike. Men, because he was always easy to jest, and women, well. That particular dancing smile must have had something to do with it. 

He caught the beam of her assessment and his grin grew wider, a pearly expanse of teeth. He inclined his head in a motion that wasn’t really a bow ( _Your Grace_ , her murmured in a sweet pitch), and planted his feet in a rather statuesque pose, lean and long. Catherine hastened to return her eyes to her reading. She didn’t know exactly how to deal with Sir Owen — she didn’t know exactly how to deal with _herself_ when she was around Sir Owen. He was remarkably different from the rest of her servants; there was a forwardness to him, a friendliness even, a warmth. Perhaps it was due to the fact he wasn’t English. In fact, when she had first heard him speak she had almost not been able to understand him. _It’s because he’s Welsh, Your Grace_ , one of her ladies had explained, a look of plain commiseration on her face. Catherine didn’t understand what made Welsh and English people so different from each other, but she liked the cadence of his words — musical, unexpected, gliding-like — and she couldn’t help thinking he must have the most beautiful singing voice. Catherine bit her lip. She would have liked to hear it one day; she could swear he could sing himself into a bird.

The thought made her cheeks warm. Contrary to what reason would have demanded, Catherine looked up from her page, finding herself engulfed by the circle of his regard. That same situation had been repeating itself over and over for months. She was used to being stared at since she couldn’t remember, but Sir Owen didn’t avert his eyes like every other servant of hers would have done. No, he met her gaze in full and held it in one long suspended moment as if they were touching hands instead of resting six feet apart. Her breath hitched, stuck against the wall of her throat. The day was scorching; she was only wearing her cotehardie instead of her houppelande, the fabric a fine carmine silk to help cool down her skin. It was not exactly working, for the air had grown hotter by degrees since Sir Owen had stepped into the garden. At last, Catherine averted her eyes to look down at her hands, at her bombard sleeves lined with black, and felt the hot coal of his gaze on her skin dissipate slowly, second by second.

“Pray, allow me to be excused, Your Grace.” Lady Roos pleaded with a moan, standing up from her seat. “Upon my soul, this heat will be the death of me!”

Eleanor had been the only one of her ladies brave enough to accept sitting outside under a noon sun. It was exactly what Catherine had wanted, but now Lady Roos left with a promise to fetch her some new company to stand in her place. Catherine tried to concentrate on her reading again, bidding her time — a whole _Ave Maria_ passed before, out of the corner of her eyes, Catherine dared to risk a glance at Sir Owen once more. He had his attention occupied elsewhere this time, his shoulders relaxed, his sculpted jaw set in a most peaceful manner. His profile was remarkable against the rose trellis, the true picture of a second Adonis. A deep craving washed over Catherine: she would have liked to take a brush and outline his shadow, the bridge of his nose, the rise of his forehead, the slope of his neck and shoulders. For it was not the first time she met that sort of craving, the unyielding pull and necessity of it: there had been times Catherine had her ladies undress her in front of open windows, blaming the heat, hoping against hope that he would pass down below, hoping he would see her, only so he could lavish her with the hot gleam of his appraisal, the naked billowing of his desire.

She must have stared at him for too long. Sir Owen turned his head towards her with a renewed offer of a smile, grey eyes that seemed to wait only for a question. _Well, so be it_. Catherine would supply him one.

“Sir Owen,” She pushed her shoulders straight against the back of her chair, chin rising up an inch. “You are Welsh, are you not?”

“I’m afraid I’m but a humble squire, Your Grace. Not a knight.”

Catherine blinked for a few seconds, unbalanced by his unusual sort of reply. “Do you speak Welsh?” Catherine wasn’t sure that was the right name of his language but she would not stand to be corrected again. “I mean to say, do you speak the language of your people?”

A constriction flashed across his face — lips, as they seemed, pressed together and curving. 

“Does Her Grace speak French?”

At first, she felt a burn like a fire iron stuck against her pride. What type of person answered a question with another question? She felt the burning mark of his quip before she realised the sensation wasn’t so unpleasant after all. Sir—Owen, that was, didn’t look as if he was mocking her; there was something genuinely curious inside that look he bestowed on her at that moment.

“I used to do it often.” She said, voice going two tones lower. “Not anymore. It is not fitting for the queen to be caught speaking the language of the enemy at all times.”

The situation had not always been so dire. Ever since a certain Jeanne d’Arc from Domrémy had arrived in Orléans, all but frustrating Bedford’s plans to advance into south-eastern France, many small things had changed. For one, a series of victories in favour of Catherine’s brother had created a tense atmosphere at the English court. Those days she found a poorly-concealed and fizzing hostility residing in many once-friendly faces, reminding her of the promise her marriage had not delivered, that pristine flower nipped at the bud. The situation was certainly grave, for even the Cardinal had taken the troops gathered for the Bohemian crusade to fight against Catherine's countrymen. The last she had heard, her brother had been crowned at Reims.

Owen drew his eyebrows together, contemplated her with unfairly thick lashes for the suspension of a moment before asking. “The enemy’s language, Her Grace says?” Within a heartbeat, he pulled the most comical face. “Which enemy exactly, Your Grace? England has several.”

The laugh that escaped her was too blunt and surprising to stop her heart from soaring. Owen had a laugh of his own, though his was more of a sympathetic chuckle than the belly roar he probably shared with his fellow squires over their pints of ale. He shook his head, looking genuinely serious in his meaning.

“You could ask the same from the Scots, Your Grace. Or the Irish. Or my people. Good heavens, some even hate the Flemish these days! What complete nonsense!” His brown curls bounced, his words lost their natural languor and picked up speed. “The English possess a rare talent for breeding enemies, don’t you think? A peculiar sort of people, I find.”

She hid her smile behind ringed fingers. “You shouldn’t speak such things, Sir Owen.” She tried but didn’t find it in herself to be as hard on him as she needed. “You shouldn’t speak your mind so freely. Not when you know walls have ears in this place.”

“Speak my mind freely? There are several other things I’d like to speak of, Your Grace.” Owen raised his eyebrows, cocked his head to the side. He looked absolutely serene, absolutely undaunted. “Yet I do not.” 

There was a challenge in his speech, a sharp edge to his smile. She accepted it; she accepted all of it. Catherine inched closer to the edge of her seat.

“Several things, you say. Would you care to tell me one?”

Perhaps for the first time ever, his smile wavered. A cloud passed over the sun and he lowered his eyes, almost shy. Had all his bravado been a farce so far, a barking dog with no real bite to it? Somehow, that would have stung Catherine more than his boldness. He raised his eyes in a deliberate slow motion. 

“Her Grace would not be pleased to hear them.”

Catherine held her breath. _Sottise de fille!_ His eyes were not grey. In his languid state, face protected against the sun under the wall’s gentle shade, she could see his eyes were a deep, dark blue, the colour of the vaulted ceiling of the Sainte-Chapelle she remembered from her childhood— _non,_ _de bêtise et encore de bêtise_. They were not even blue, in fact, but perhaps a mottled brown, or some other shade she couldn’t pinpoint, two irises rounded with grey or blued by longing.

She looked at him keenly, emboldened, enlarged by the scale of her own desires. “I doubt it most heartily.”

There was an intake of breath before Owen spoke again, and when he did, it was not without some reluctance.

“I’m sure Her Grace would not be so heartless as to put me at such a disadvantage.” Owen shifted his stance, his jaw set as if he was mustering the greatest amount of self-restraint he had ever needed in his life. “Not when I—humble servant than I am!—am made to watch the sun rise and set every day without daring to extend my hand towards it. No touch, but that of the eyes.” He frowned, impatient with himself. “Ever sighing, ever yearning! No, I’m sure Her Grace would not be so merciless as to make me say the heavy bearings of my heart. Not, I dare say, when evil ears stand so close behind these trellises.” He lowered his voice into the whisper of a warning. “As Her Grace herself has said.”

 _Oh_ , Catherine felt the thumping of a fast-beating heart, undecided whether she should be concerned or flattered. _Le Gallois galant!_ Owen kept his eyes fastened to hers, expecting some sign of her approval, it seemed, rather than fearing a reprimand in any sort of way. His boldness, oblique as it was, spoke to the one lodged inside her own chest, urged her to be bolder for both of them. Catherine rose up, book folded inside the tight fit of her crossed arms. She needed to be out of that garden before one of her ladies showed up.

“Follow me.”

He didn’t hesitate. Her servant had been much in the habit of shadowing her steps to be taken aback by her sudden request. As Catherine headed to the Lower Ward, heads bowed and knees bent everywhere they went as people took in the sight of their dowager queen and the servant following behind her at a respectful distance. Those people loved her, yes, yet it was not enough. It would never be so. She had a demanding heart that would not yield, would not stay still, would not be satisfied. She had tired of fighting against that lonely creature’s dying call, had tired of trying to bury it under the sands of duty. She would hear what Owen had to say even if it meant she was signing her death.

They entered the Lady Chapel but found their destination to be unreachable. Two priests knelt before the altar, prayer beads between their fingers, tongues reciting what was probably the Rosary in deep concentration. Catherine could not afford to lose time: she spun on her heels before they could turn and see her and rushed towards the chapter room used for the Garter meetings, finding it — finally, thankfully — vacant. One-handedly, she pushed the door, touched its bolts and locks. Her heart was about to climb out of her throat, a voice deep inside her mind cried out against her act of madness but she ploughed through and trod on. She told Owen to bar the door behind him, leaving them eerily alone amidst the empty seats, the alabaster colonnades. The columns rose from the floors and spiralled towards the vaulted ceiling to turn that place into a type of holy cavern, a dwelling Saint Jerome might have chosen to write his _Vulgata_ in, if only because it had been expanded into a wilderness, rendered boundless by her newfound strength of will. The row of high windows circling the room washed them with light.

And so she turned at last, and met his eye again. She pressed the book against her chest tighter. There was something a bit wild about him, an unexpected type of Sir Yvain of the Round Table, _chevalier au lion_ , wanderer of the woods. Something wild that lived in the way his brown wavy hair splayed around his forehead, something wild _in her_ that reflected on him.

“I’m not much of a mind to pray.” 

Owen raised one of his eyebrows. “You are not?”

It didn’t escape Catherine how casually he had discarded her formal address. She bit her bottom lip to stop herself from smiling. “No. I wish to hear those heavy bearings of your heart which you so spoke of before.” She took a step and stopped. “And I should like you to be completely, thoroughly forthright with me this time.”

Their chests rose and fell in sync, she noticed, hearts pulled by the same set of strings; bodies moving, as it were, within the same ripple. Was that unfair of her to ask a bird to sing from inside his cage? 

Owen approached her carefully, step after step. “If only I could be truthful and confide on you, Your Grace, I would say—” A sigh, a frown, a shaking of the head. “—I would say how utterly shameful, how criminal even, how utterly pitiful I find the manner the English choose to neglect their queen. Shameful, yes how they make her spend her days encased like a precious icon behind a glass pane, holy yet non-adored.” He licked his lips, his eyes trailed down and then up her frame. “If it were for me, Your Grace, I would worship at her feet every day and night.”

There was no hesitation, not even surprise.

“Then do it.” Catherine found herself uttering, her words paused and deliberate in their meaning. “Worship at my feet.”

Like Sir Yvain who fell in love with a beautiful widow, would his namesake pledge his whole life to her? _Will you dedicate your life to me,_ was what Catherine wanted to ask, _will you tame a lion for me, tear out your clothes for me, lose yourself in the woods, will you go mad with grief for me?_ For that was the moment Catherine realised she was still drawing breath; she wanted what every woman wanted in the world: devotion of the mind and of the soul. She wanted it all — the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit too.

Owen knelt on the stone ground, patient and eager at once: right knee first, then the left one. He pried the book from her arms, a gesture unmistakably two-fold. He placed it on the floor and reached for her right hand with both of his own, holding her gaze, inviting her attention — her thoughts, her heart — and ran the pad of his thumb along the palm of her hand. He drew a line along her skin, from the base of her wrist to the tip of her finger, circled the rim of her palm in a feather-like motion. It had not been Catherine’s intention to shiver, nor to hold her breath, but when Owen buried his nose inside her hand and kissed her bare palm, Catherine could not refrain from sighing. It would have been a most chaste kiss, devotional even, if not for the flick of the tip of his tongue against the curved recess of her hand. He moved further up to place a new kiss on the inner side of her wrist and, just as she expected his path to ascend, he ceased all movement. He looked up at her, eyes wide, dreamy and blown.

In that place of limitless desire, everything stayed up and still. They were enveloped in a sort of fog, a haze, lyrical and awkward at once. Catherine held his gaze and nodded, so that inexplicably slowly, his hand reached for her foot, swept smoothly along its arch and around her ankle. He lifted her foot out of her slipper, and Catherine had to lay a hand on one of the room’s columns to keep herself in place. Over her stocking, Owen kissed the flesh underneath it, head dipping in one reverent motion. Her cheeks flushed; Catherine was flooded by the revelation: they were all trying to turn her into a saint. All of them, yes, all but the man bent in adoration at her feet. Her breath hitched as Owen began to gather and pull down her stocking from under her gown; she was equal parts giddy and self-contained. How strangely fine and free to feel his touch on her bare skin, on the slope of her calf, on the round cap of her knee — and then following a sigh, a whimper — the pressure of his roving hand on the ascending curve of her thigh. How strangely sublime to be laved and extended by his attention, the feathery touch of his finger pads! Her pulse quickened, rose to her eardrums, so that in the intersection and flow of their ravishing hurry — the moment invaded by light, a quick and temporary sheen as any other gesture filled by desire — Catherine began to pull up her skirts, far enough for Owen to see the lines of her leg.

The moment gathered like water about to overflow a jar, all arrested suspension and then quick dropping release. Owen didn’t waste time in pressing his lips to her exposed skin, intensifying his touch with a sort of unanswered hunger, making her press her eyes shut, making her shiver, lay a hand on the softness of her hair. She was unfolding like a lily come Maytime again, not golden but lilac-blue, drenched in scent and pollen and sweetness. One of his hands held her in place, the other one swept over her skin to the curve of her hip. He nuzzled a sinuous way up on her flesh, his tongue marking a deliciously warm and wet trail, platinum latitudes, time-out-of-time haze, before his teeth scraped the smoothness of her inner thigh. Catherine gasped loud enough to frighten herself. 

“Oh, that’s enough!” She stepped back, breathless, and pushed down her skirts. 

What had she been thinking? What if someone had heard her cry or tried to open the door? _Sottise de fille!_ Catherine grew so angry with herself, she felt like nothing but a girl who didn’t know any better than to insist on the force of her own wishes.

Owen rose to his feet, his face strangely empty of any emotion, before he bowed and turned to leave her to her own penitent thoughts. He didn’t ask for her forgiveness, he did not ask for her mercy — he did not speak at all. He did not say a word! No guilt dwelt inside him, not even regret. Catherine stopped him from unlocking the door.

“Sir Owen!”

He turned. “Madame, I am not a _sir_.”

Catherine bent down to retrieve her book and hastened to his side.

“There is something else I would like to ask you.” He met her gaze openly, without fear. _Pas plus de sottise de fille_ , she decided with a deep intake of breath, _sottise de femme ça y serait._ “How do I say your name in—how do I say your name in W—”

“Cymraeg?” He offered, face lighting up anew with the most dazzling smile Catherine had ever seen. “Owain.”

It was slightly disappointing that his Welsh name was not _Yvain_ , but she nodded regardless, testing his name on her mouth, her palate, her tongue.

“Owen.”

“No, _Owain._ ” He laughed, turning a fond eye on her. “Your Grace, it's your accent, you see?”

She bit the smile threatening to overcome her cheeks. She ran a finger across the velvet binding of her book, pressed her pad against its softness as her eyes perused his fair face, his handsome mouth. She was taken by a barely-contained thrill.

“Dis-moi quelque chose.”

“En Gallois?” He chirped, head tilting. His grin, which Catherine had not thought could have grown wider, unravelled further. Owen began to recite his words rather than utter them, his tongue deliciously sharp and melodic.

“Di-frys yn denfyn Duw fry y dialedd lle dyly. Cymru am byth.” His suggestive, perfectly devious face anticipated his meaning. “In time, God above will send vengeance where it is deserved." His eyebrows rose and fell. "Long live Wales.”

Catherine couldn’t stop her smile that time. His boldness was boundless, limitless; no desire of his, it seemed, would remain unfulfilled. How shocking, how startlingly free!

“You shouldn’t say that aloud.”

“Shall I say it in your ear, then?” He stepped closer. “Or shall I say something else?” His hand slid against the silk of her dress, wrapped around her waist. “Something else more to your liking?”

Catherine leant forward, bridging the gap between their bodies. She spoke close to his mouth, that handsome mouth that contained all the melodies from Paradise.

“Perhaps next time.”

As she fell back and slipped from his grasp, his face turned into a picture of silent wonderment. She could have kissed him for it.

“Wait a bit before you follow me, will you?”

Pressing her book against her chest, Catherine began her slow way back to the castle’s Upper Ward. Her ladies must have been looking everywhere for her by then, yet even if they had found her, none other than God would have known where her heart truly lay. La poétesse’s words invaded her mind, lines Pisan had shared with Catherine’s own mother: _the greater a lady is, the more is her honour or dishonour celebrated throughout the country than that of any other ordinary woman_. Catherine shook her head; why should she think about falling from the pedestal they had placed her? Catherine would be careful; she would not fall. If Owen could sing himself into a bird, perhaps so could she. She would grow wings and take flight.

**Author's Note:**

> *
> 
> A few lines translated:
> 
>  _Pas plus de sottise de fille_ : no more a girl's stupidity | _sottise de femme ça y serait_ : a woman's stupidity it will be
> 
>  _Dis-moi quelque chose_ : Tell me something | _En Gallois_ : In Welsh
> 
> Historical Notes:
> 
> (*) When Catherine de Valois was around seven years old she was sent to the monastery of Saint-Louis de Poissy as part of her education. There she stayed with her older sister Marie who had lived most of her life at the monastery and indeed would later in life take vows and become Mère Prieuse. Christine de Pisan, referred here as 'la poétesse' also had a daughter there, Marie de Pisan. Poissy was built by King Philip IV to honour his grandfather, King (and Saint) Louis IX, who had been born nearby. It was one of the most important religious houses in France and because of its royal patronage and close proximity to Paris, it was a place that received many daughters of the nobility and French royalty (who had their own set of private apartments). Poissy was attacked twice during the Hundred Years' Wars, the first time in 1346 when Edward III took the city and used the monastery as his headquarters. After he departed, his son the Prince of Wales (not without reason, dubbed _Le Prince Noir_ by the French) set fire to two castles in the area, then did the same to the monastery — _'met Poissy à feu et à sang'_ — which implies, I think, that he attacked it with fire and sword.
> 
> (*) We don't know when Owen Tudor (then known as Owen Meredith) entered into Catherine's service, though I've seen the year 1427 suggested as a likely date. I have no idea when the spark between the two started, but if Catherine really sought to wed Edmund Beaufort in 1428, it could only have happened after that failed marriage attempt. Her son's council stipulated that if Catherine married without King Henry VI's consent (who would only leave his minority in ten years time), her husband would have his lands, and therefore income, forfeited. We don't know when Edmund Tudor was born but it makes sense that Catherine gave birth to him sometime after her son Henry's English coronation (December 1429) and before December 1430.
> 
> (*) Owen's father and uncles were Owain Glyndŵr's first cousins and part of the Welsh lords that started the war for Welsh independence in 1400. Owain Glyndŵr was declared Prince of Wales and fought off no less than six invasions facing the army of the King of England and his mercenaries. The Tudors of Penmynydd were a prominent family from Anglesey (North Wales) that was closely associated with King Richard II — indeed, Owen's uncle Rhys ap Tudur, Sheriff of Anglesey, had been King Richard's squire, and he and his brother Gwilym had been appointed military leaders by Richard II and joined him in his campaign in Ireland. Rhys and his brothers Gwilym and Maredudd (Owen's father) declared their allegiance to Owain Glyndŵr and took Conwy Castle in 1401. Rhys was hanged, drawn and quartered at Chester in 1409 and Gwilym was killed in 1413. When Henry IV arrived in Wales, he put Anglesey to the sword, burning several villages and monasteries including Llanfaes Friary, where the Tudor ancestors were buried.
> 
> Maredudd was pardoned but lost most of his Penymynydd estates. Out of favour, Maredudd sent his son Owain to be a ward of a certain Lord Rhys, his second cousin, around the time when father and son moved to London. When Owen was around seven years old he was sent to Henry IV's court to act as a page to the king's steward, later serving in the war with France when he was promoted to the rank of squire. Apparently, after he returned to England he was allowed to use his Welsh arms but it was not until 1432 when he was granted "full" rights of an Englishman. Ever since Owain Glyndŵr's war the English crown had inflicted harsh penal laws against the Welsh, forbidding them, among other things, from holding property and land, serving on juries, intermarrying with the English and holding offices for the crown.
> 
> (*) Owen was imprisoned for marrying Catherine after she died, though Henry VI eventually forgave his stepfather. The king took him into his household and made him Warden of Forestries and a Deputy Lord Lieutenant. Henry VI also knighted him, so Owen was known henceforth as Sir Owen Meredith Tudor. Years later, Owen was raised from his rank of Knight Bachelor to Knight Banneret so that he could command forces at the Battle of Mortimer's Cross (1461). Unfortunately, as the Lancastrians lost battle, Owen was captured and beheaded following the orders of Edward IV, then Earl of March.
> 
> Please don't be intimidated by the sheer size of my notes, I would love it if you'd let me know whether you liked this story! ❤️❤️ And @beardofkamanev, here's to your criminally underrepresented OTP! Cheers 🥂x


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